Not my usual type
by raining.in.adelaide
Summary: When Sandy set up this blind date between Pitch and Jack, he neglected to tell Pitch how young Jack is. He didn't mention how bloody hot he is, either.


Pitch doesn't date, or at least that's what he tells people who hit on him.

It's what he tells friends that know someone _so_ perfect for him - which happens surprisingly often - but for someone who doesn't speak much, Sandy can be most annoying when he gets an idea in his head.

Which brings Pitch to a restaurant out in the Docklands, an Italian place with good reviews on Yelp and a decent wine list should the date be as dire as he fears.

All he knows is that the date's name is Jack, he has bleach-blond hair (and really, does that sound like Pitch's taste?), and he'll have a red rose pinned to his lapel because if they're doing the blind date thing they might as well do every cliché along the way.

Stepping into the warmth of the restaurant, Pitch looks around and immediately spies the back of a bleach-blond head. Sighing, he tries to smile, gives up and aims for not-scowling instead.

He approaches the table and comes around to see Jack for the first time-

Oh. Oh _no_.

He's gorgeous. Stunning, really. Slim. Lovely bone structure. The most beautiful eyes Pitch has ever seen.

But-

"Are you even old enough to drink?" The question comes out high-pitched and whiny. Smooth, he thinks to himself and tries not to wince. Very smooth.

Jack stops with the wine glass halfway to his mouth and the corner of his mouth slowly pulls into a smile.

"I'm old enough to drink in England."

Pitch should leave. If he had any bloody sense _at all_ he would leave. But Jack is… Good god look at him. It's extremely rare that Pitch finds himself attracted to someone, it's an annual event if that, but ten seconds after meeting this - this _teenager_ (because that's what he must be, jesus christ) he knows he wants Jack naked and gasping in his bed.

That's what makes him sit down, that and the fear that the blood rushing to his cock will soon become far too evident.

"So you're Pitch?"

"And you're Jack."

"I'm guessing Sandy didn't tell you how old I am?"

"He did not." Pitch doesn't appreciate how amused Jack seems by that fact.

"He told me how old _you_ are. Told me you had a daughter too. It's okay, I have a thing for hot dads."

Pitch's eye twitches but before he can say anything he may or may not regret, the waiter comes to take his drink order.

"I'm drinking the Merlot if you fancy sharing a bottle," Jack says, and for all that Pitch feels bad for encouraging drinking in one so young, a bottle does sound good. At least one bottle.

Jack spends the next few minutes talking about how Sandy is his professor and how much he enjoys the tech behind dreamshare, but Pitch isn't really listening. He's too busy with his own thoughts of _I should leave_ and _I bet he gives amazing head_ and _god I want to pull on his hair_.

The trouble, by the time Pitch is thinking thoughts like that it's already far too late. His possessiveness has already kicked in and when Jack smiles at the returning waiter, Pitch's jealousy surges.

It's ridiculous and he knows it, but he's always ridiculous when it comes to dating. That's why he doesn't do it.

But _look_ at Jack, just look at him.

Another moment of inner turmoil and Pitch gives in. It's just dinner after all.

"So you teach at Imperial College too, right?" Jack asks as he swirls the dark wine around the glass. "Architecture?"

Pitch nods. "Architecture as it relates to dreams," he says. "Building the world for you all to play in."

"Shared dreaming," Jack says, amazement rich in a voice far too deep for someone who looks so young. Pitch wonders what that voice would sound like when he's being fucked, hard and fast, how broken it would be, how he would beg for more, more, _please_-

Pitch sips his wine.

They order and Jack reminds Pitch of just how much teenage boys can eat. He also startles him with his intelligence and wit, and if Pitch wasn't already half a bottle of wine's worth of desperate for this boy he is now.

Pitch pays for the dinner, keeping to the date clichés and also he's fairly sure that if Jack paid for his half of the meal he wouldn't be able to afford groceries this week.

They step outside into the cool autumn air, crisp and just this side of frost. Walking to the tube station, they pause before the ticket barrier.

Jack looks up at him with a most wicked smile. "So. Back to your place?"

"On a first date?" Pitch's raises an eyebrow. "Goodness no, Jack, what do you take me for?"

Jack's confidence slips, just for a moment, long enough for Pitch to slide a hand around to the small of Jack's back, tug him close and give him the kind of kiss that Jack would probably call making out, all tongues and slick lips, with just a little groping of Jack's lovely arse and a grinding of hips that is more a promise for next time than anything else.

And then Pitch steps back with a bright smile, smoothing down his coat. "Are you free on Saturday?"

"I- what?" Jack's eyes are glazed and he's clearly hard. Pitch can see the outline of his cock in his jeans and that's almost enough for him to thrust his resolve aside and take Jack home.

Almost.

"I thought it might be nice to do this again. There's a Brazilian place I've been wanting to try on South Bank. I could meet you at the Eye?"

Jack's mouth works silently a few times and then his cocky grin returns, though with his eyes still glazed like that it doesn't have quite the same effect. "And _then_ you'll take me home?"

"That would depend on how it goes, wouldn't it?"

"Then I guess I'll have to make it awesome, won't I?"

"I guess you will," Pitch agrees, and after stealing one last swift, wet kiss he heads to his platform. That was a good night, thought he rather thinks Saturday will be better.

It looks like he owes Sandy a thank-you drink.


End file.
